


reverence and piety

by Anonymous



Category: X-Men (Movieverse)
Genre: Daddy Kink, En Sabah Nur - Freeform, Extreme Age Difference, Grinding, Heavy Petting, M/M, Praise Kink, Warren Worthington III - Freeform, Wing Kink, like the underage is sketchy but JUST TO BE SAFE
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-25 19:31:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,098
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9840770
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: Sometimes, a god must make offerings to appease his followers.





	

**Author's Note:**

> lol.

Archangel is alone, for now. His room is entirely bare but for a bedroll in the corner, a useless window (ceiling entirely removed to allow for his flight), and a raised slab in the center of the room. His quarters, then, must have been the back room of a kitchen at some point. It is too easy to imagine himself as a lamb stretched over the stone, waiting for to be slaughtered. But this is not his fate, no. Apocalypse has raised him to be more than that. 

 

At present he is stretched over the slab, sunning himself in the desert sun. His wings cannot feel the sublime warmth as his natural ones could have, but it is a sacrifice he wholeheartedly embraces-- he is better for it. Apocalypse wouldn't change him without first knowing exactly how, and why. 

 

The man himself enters Archangel's room with little fanfare, just a quiet sigh that announces his presence and spares him razor feathers flying in his direction. Archangel does not sit up but he does greet him with a muted clatter of rustling feathers. This frees Apocalypse to come forwards until he is standing over Archangel like a priest above a lamb. He strokes Archangel's wing, the strong support that melds with his metal alula. 

 

"Father."

 

"Yes, my child?" Archangel is brought sharply to the attention of Apocalypse's hands, his thick hands caressing the edges of his wings without fear. It tugs and causes the slightest pain, but even that is overrun with a growing warmth in his chest, pulsing cup of his heart overflowing with adulation, and Death purrs before his master. 

 

"Tell me again." 

 

Apocalypse's hand moves down, thumbing over axillary feathers; the base, his skin warm against Archangel's. "Of course, my child. My Archangel." His voice is soft, though not lacking in firmness. Never lacking. It makes Archangel's hair stand on end like he's been electrified, like he's been naughty and is about to be punished. He's asked for too much, he's overstepped his bounds. Apocalypse has never denied him this, though; never punished him for wanting to be told how good he is. Archangel only ever believes it when it comes from his mouth. His Death is a vain and fickle creature; without sufficient preening, he will wilt. "Your talents were wasted in that pit. I made you stronger, I made you perfect." 

 

"Father." It's pitiful, how his voice drives up like the whine of a puppy when Apocalypse rubs his back at the stretch between his wings. He feel impossibly naked. Stripped bare, to the bones, laid out for Apocalypse to painstakingly examine-- to find the flaws and to strike them out. 

 

"My other Horsemen are beings of immense power-- I do not blame you for feeling inadequate." The words sting, evidenced in the prickling stand of Archangel's razor down. 

 

"No, no, _father_ \--" Apocalypse's nails drag down the slim expanse of skin and wring Archangel's words into breathless, strangled worship. "I don't--"

 

Apocalypse speaks. Archangel falls silent, trembling, words like useless sand. "There is a reason you are Death, my child." He hasn't said this before. It doesn't fall in line with the warm praise he'd laid upon all of them. This, this sounds more like a promise. "See how finely you have been remade." His voice is a whisper that Archangel has to strain to hear, has to hold himself still even as Apocalypse's fingers pet him to keep his feathers from clattering and overpowering the voice that holds him rapt. The hand, nails blunt but still demanding, continues on a determined path. His spine, courting intimacy with the strong swathe of his lumbar. Lower. "You are beautiful, my Archangel. Graceful and terrible. The will describe you with the same words they use to describe me. Death comes for all, my child, for everything." His hand slides lower to cup Archangel's ass, thumb pressing the dimple where his spine curves out into it. "You will raze it all to the ground, and I will rebuild with the ashes in your wake." 

 

Apocalypse finally sits on the slab next to Archangel, and it is nearly pitiful how quickly he scrambles to his hands and knees, his knees, slinging a leg over Apocalypse's and clutching his shoulders with both hands, wings flapping to keep his balance. The man-- his god, his father-- grips him by the hips and helps him situate, squirm onto his lap. 

 

He barely has time to react to Apocalypse's strong hands guiding him before he's rocking his hips of his own volition, trying to squirm closer than physical bounds allowed. 

 

"I am yours, father, yours." Archangel buries his face in Apocalypse's neck, biting back a wail. He ruts against his thigh, thin pants providing the barest amount of friction. They're already soaked through with precum. "I will raze it, I'll kill them all, I'll do it for you." 

 

One of Apocalypse's hands is under where his wings meet his body. To keep from accidentally harming him, Archangel has to hold his wings up. The desert light catches on each edge and makes them shine, reflecting white points of light on the sandstone around them. His hair is messy again, what sun that streams through the slats of his wings and the area between them making each strand glow like filigree. Apocalypse caresses his back with one hand, rubs circles on his hip with the other. 

 

"I am yours, I will never be anything but yours, father." His voice drops into hoarseness, goaded by the way he feels drunk off of the pleasure, friction against his wet pants almost painful in the way that it burns. How dearly he wants it to be skin against skin! "Father, please." 

 

"Begging is unbecoming of you, my child."

 

He can't help it. The pleas tumble out of his mouth and he chokes on them, surrenders words in favor of animal grunting and wails.

 

He comes, to none's surprise. It's anticlimactic in how eagerly he'd chased after it, just a few more desperate pumps of his hips before the fog of arousal clears from his mind and he's left too aware of the fact that bare seconds ago he'd humped Apocalypse's leg like an untrained dog. Even if Apocalypse didn't seem to mind, it was... unbecoming. Archangel keeps his head in the crook of Apocalypse's shoulder and pants.

 

"The others will return soon." Apocalypse strokes his back one more time and lowers him off of his lap. Archangel keens at the loss of his touch. "Clean yourself, my child. Don your armor. We will rebuild the world."


End file.
